


A Tent of Shelter

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, wifegate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:26:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5170565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wifegate fic set between IWTB and Season 10. In the same universe as Rags of Light. Inspired by Avocadoave at Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tent of Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Thank you so much to @contradiction-to-nature, @leiascully, @scienceandmysticism, and @icedteainthebag for being such amazing, supportive sounding boards. Very special thank you to @dashakay for her usual speedy and insightful beta, which gave this exactly the adjustments it needed. 
> 
> And, of course, thanks to @avocadoave without whose post this fic would not exist. http://avocadoave.tumblr.com/post/131268589106/look-i-know-that-ifwhen-mulder-and-scully-got
> 
> The title comes from Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me To The End of Love. Small shout-out to the anon who asked for Scully to get a bottle of Jasmin Rogue.

Mulder smells coffee and eggs in the crisp October air. He smells sex and laundry detergent. Scully’s sharp clean toiletries, scented with rosemary and peppermint. Tea tree oil. He is alert now, lonesome and bored in bed.

He swings his feet to the floor, nudging them into his slippers. He stands, stretches, does a general once over. He was forty-nine yesterday and is amazed by how much younger it sounds than fifty. His knees creak a little. He has to be careful about his lower back when lifting things, and Scully frets about his prostate and his cholesterol. These things have been true for some time but there wasn’t this number attached, this big weighty thing with a bulbous zero at the end of it.

_Fifty._

Scully, still in her forties, practically an infant, is making noises in the kitchen. She woke him up when the sky was a blurry violet-orange, and they had sweet, drowsy sex. Then she told him to roll over and go to sleep like a normal middle aged man. He is mildly ashamed of his easy acquiescence.

He wanders into the kitchen, sniffing. Scully is putting the summer’s peach preserves on thick slices of toast. She’s wearing navy flannel pajama pants with little moons on them, a long-sleeved gray t-shirt from Luray Caverns. Her hair, loosely braided, is the same color as the preserves.

“You look adorable,” he observes, sliding his arms around her.

She swats him with the spatula, getting butter on his arm. “Don’t call me adorable,” she says, stretching up to kiss him. “Eggs are about done. Happy birthday.”

“You hit me,” he remarks, pouting. “I’m an old man and you just…you beat me.”

“Well, I’d hate for you to have to beat yourself. Go sit down.”

He grins, takes a seat as she carries over the scrambled eggs. There is a lit candle in the center, blue with glitter. “Wow, Scully. This is pretty fancy. You find this idea online or what?”

“No, this is my own design. You like it?” She settles next to him, one foot tucked beneath her. “Happy birthday. Blow out your candle.”

He looks at her, incredulous. “You didn’t sing. I’m not blowing it out if you won’t even sing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Happybirthdaytoyouhappybirthdaytoyouhappybirthdaydearfoooo-oooxhappybirthdaytoyou. There.”

He blows it out with the air of one making a great concession. “ _Fox_. Honestly, Dana.”

“I don’t care if you call me Dana,” she points out, helping herself to some strawberries. “The last name thing has always been your hangup.”

As this undeniably true, he lets it pass. “Got a text and we can get the chicks after lunch.”

“You and your chickens.”

“You love them.”

“I love the eggs.” She punctuates this with a forkful of them. “What are these chicks again? More Polish Fluffies?”

“Frizzles. Jeez, Scully, they can sense your indifference. It hurts them. And to answer your question, no. These are Silkies.”

Mulder has been surprised by his own interest in the birds. He has plans for guinea keets and Indian runner ducks in the spring. There is a small flock of peafowl that seem to delight in startling Scully with their loud mews.

“Whatever,” she says. “I know you’re excited and I’m glad they’re ready today. I want to fix the sink in the milking parlor before the weather gets really cold but other than that, what are you up for once we get your Silkies home?”

Mulder shrugs. Birthdays were never much celebrated in his house and he is still amused by Scully’s strict adherence to keeping them sacrosanct. Even during the darkest years, the years in fly-by-night motels when Scully’s hair was boy-short and bottle-blonde, she’d manage to scrape something together to celebrate.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I really need to clear out that back pasture.”

“Not on your birthday.” Her sharp little chin is firmly set.

“Yeah, yeah. Let's…hmm.” He’s fifty and that is, admittedly, a significant milestone. He can come up with something for her to organize. “Okay. Let’s go out to Maude’s and have ice cream sundaes for lunch. Then when we get back you can set up the projector to watch  _Spaceballs_  on the side of the house. And you can set up the tent for a campout tonight. S'mores, boozy coffee, hot dogs. I want the works.”

“That’s good. I like it. Anything else?” Scully bites into her toast, pausing to lick preserves off her finger.

He regards her thoughtfully. “Let’s get married.”

She coughs a chunk of peach onto her plate. “Pardon?”

He hadn’t really meant to say that, had he? It was a joke. He can make it a joke.  _Just wanted to see if you were listening, ha ha._  But why the hell not, come to think of it? Why the hell not stand her up in front of her mom and god and everybody? Twenty years next to her and it suddenly seems like the thing to do.

“I’m serious,” he tells her. “Nothing fancy. Unless you want to register at Pottery Barn or something.”

Scully sets her toast on her plate. She dabs at her mouth, takes a sip of her coffee. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay?” Fifteen years by the skin of their teeth and one would think he’d asked if she minded mushrooms on the pizza.

“Sure.” She drinks more coffee, peering at him over the rim of her mug. “You seem surprised.”

“I am,” he confesses. “It escalated quickly from chickens.”

“Well, it’s your birthday. I can hardly say no.”

“I’m also surprised by your unaffected demeanor, to be honest.”

She smiles at him, her lopsided grin. “Mulder, what can change, really? The taxes. The health insurance. But I think we’ve reached some point of terminal commitment, don’t you think? And you can hardly imagine I’ll be Doctor Mulder. So do I like the idea? I do, very much. But it’s hardly shocking.”

“Scully my love, you need to read more romance novels.”

She laughs, eats another strawberry.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, serious now. “I don’t know what the rules are for a priest or anything. So I guess, uh…what? Courthouse in Warrenton?”

She nods, squeezes back. “That’s fine. It’s Saturday. I work tomorrow and Monday. You want to do this Tuesday afternoon?”

Mulder’s mind is racing; he has ideas, rejects them, and has more. “Tuesday’s good,” he says, like they’re scheduling a time for the cable guy.

Scully gets to her feet. “Come back to bed,” she murmurs. “We have to get in the rest of our premarital sex while we can.”

***

Scully comes home from work bone-weary but happy. When she gets out of the car a peacock runs up, mewing raucously. It pecks at her coat.

“Asshole,” she says, kicking gravel at it.

She finds Mulder in the barn, cuddling his ridiculous chickens. “You sure you have room in your heart for me? Because I’m starting to feel like there needs to be an ultimatum here.”

He cups one of the Silkies in his hands. “She doesn’t mean it, Wolverine.” The chick, looking like a blown-out dandelion, peeps.

Scully slouches against the doorway, smiling. This man, this brilliant, heartbreaking, absurd man, is going to be her husband in twenty-four hours. It hardly changes a thing beyond their tax return, and yet she’s giddy about it in a way that leaves her feeling vulnerable. She hid it as best she could yesterday, though she suspects he knows better.

“Mulder?”

He looks up. “Yep?”

“Nothing.”

He smiles in his rapturous way. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not. There’s nothing to be nervous about, Mulder, goodness. This is just…it’s a formality. Don’t be silly.” She sniffs. “Did you milk the goats?”

“I did. Milk’s pasteurized. Go pack a bag.”

“Thanks, I really – what?”

“Overnight bag. Whatever you’re wearing tomorrow.”

Scully stares at him, her arms crossed. “What are you talking about?”

“Scully, it’s bad luck for me to see you before the wedding,” he explains patiently. “You can’t be here.”

She laughs aloud. “Bad luck? Abductions, murders, leucotomes, mothmen, flukemen, liver-eating mutants, brain cancer, cow tornadoes…and you’re afraid of seeing me before we fill out some forms at the courthouse. Mulder, are you serious?”

He releases Wolverine, who staggers off. “Just imagine how much worse it could be. We can’t take the chance, Scully. You’re staying at your mom’s, I already called her.”

She stares. “You actually called my mom about this?”

“She supports me, I’ll have you know. Very wise woman, Maggie.”

Scully opens her mouth, then closes it again. The relationship between the three of them had been tenuous at best for years. It had finally warmed up to cordial, but the idea of Mulder calling her mother for a phone chat is rather stunning. “You know what?” she says at last. “I’ll go pack a bag.”

***

“Dana?”

“Mmmmmmffffff, I don’t have work, go away.”

Her mother settles on the bed next to her. “Dana get up. It’s almost nine, you need to get ready.”

Scully rolls over, blinking and confused. “Ready? Mom, we’re going to the courthouse near home. I need to shower and blowdry. I got my suit from the cleaners yesterday.”

Her mother’s hand is warm on her forehead. “I have something for you.”

Scully sits up, rubbing her face with her hands. “Is it coffee? Please say it’s coffee.”

“You’ve never been a morning person, not since you were little. I think we can arrange for coffee. Come on, Dana.” She stands, holding her hand out.

Scully follows her mother from the guest room of the tidy condo in Grover Park. “What is it, Mom?”

“It was Fox’s idea,” she says. “And rather romantic, all things considered.”

Scully ignores the jab. “What is this about?”

Maggie goes to the coat closet and removes a dress bag from Nordstrom. “We went on Sunday, Fox and I. While you were at work.” Her face is flushed, her eyes bright, and she passes the bag to her bemused daughter.

Scully opens it to reveal a white silk chiffon dress, rich with beading and sequins. “What is this?”

“It’s, well, it’s a cocktail dress but we thought…a wedding dress.”

Scully stares. It looks hideously expensive. It looks like something for a woman who smokes French cigarettes from a long holder. It looks like a dress for a person so diametrically different from herself that it’s laughable. She has a perfectly serviceable gray skirt suit hanging up, there’s no need for this confection. She’s not really a bride. This marriage is a whim of Mulder’s, some game they’re playing for sensibilities she used to possess.

She’s been selling herself on that belief since Saturday but the butterflies in her stomach aren’t buying it.

“Try it on, Dana. It’s just your size; we took measurements from some of your suits.”

Her mother’s excitement squeezes at her. It’s a marvel the woman even speaks to her. She may not be a real bride, but she’s the closest her mother’s going to get. The image of Mom and Mulder at Nordstrom, hunting for something to dress her up in, constricts her throat. “It’s beautiful, Mom. I’ll go try it on.”

“Don’t put a bra on. The back is sheer.”

Scully exhales through her nose. Leave it to Mulder to pick out a backless wedding dress. She drapes the bag over her arm and returns to the guest room. Scully undresses quickly, down to her underwear. The silk chiffon is cobweb fine against her skin, the front panel heavy with beads and ornamentation for which she lacks the vocabulary. Her breasts feel exposed by the sheer sides and she’s childishly shocked that her mother approved this.

She has never owned, never even tried on anything like this. Nothing in her life has required it. She turns and looks at her nearly bare back in the mirror with grudging admiration. The dress is stunning; it skims her body with couture perfection. Scully indulges in a twirl and the dress obliges, gossamer fabric floating and spinning around her. It settles airily about her knees once more, light as mist. She stares at herself, at her freckled face and messy bun. She feels like the ballerina in her sister’s jewelry box.

“Mom,” she calls. “It looks great!”

Maggie hurries in. “Oh, Dana,” she says from the doorway, her hand over her mouth. “You look like a princess.”

Scully swallows a laugh. A princess? She’s forty-seven years old, riddled with scars and shrapnel, marrying a recluse of questionable stability. But her mother’s eyes are wet and so she says thank you.

“Let me show you the rest of it.” Maggie holds up a large shopping bag and walks to the bed. They sit together and Scully watches her mother remove three shoe boxes, a little white jewelry case, and a red and gold package of the shockingly expensive perfume she’s been lusting after.

Scully opens the closest shoebox and her eyes widen. The heels are scandalously high, sparkling platinum with a peep-toe. Beautiful craftsmanship keeps them just this side of stripper shoes.

“The rest are the same. Do you like them? I thought they were a bit much but the salesgirl assured us they were just the thing.”

“They’re perfect. You and Mulder really did all this?” she asks, extracting the bottle of Jasmin Rouge. The smell is as heady as she remembers.

“It was his idea, as I said. He called on Saturday.”

Scully looks down at her hands, smiling. Mulder on the phone with her mother while she was shopping for marshmallows and chocolate, the two of them going to the  _mall_  of all places while she ate vending machine food and comforted other women’s children. Mulder picking the last dress she’d ever choose for herself, a dress that makes her feel impossibly feminine, and recalling a scent she’d mentioned once.

Her mother loosens her hair so that it tumbles down her back. She strokes it like one pets a cat; an act of self-comfort. “Dana, I need to speak to you plainly.”

This has been coming for years, she knows, and she’s ready. “Okay.”

“This is your wedding day. And it’s nothing like what I imagined when you were younger. There’s no priest. Your father’s gone, your sister…” her mother shakes her head.

“I’m sorry.” The things she’s done to this woman are unconscionable.        

“Your life with Fox is not what I wanted for you, I can’t pretend otherwise. Your life in the FBI, the… _choices_  you’ve made…” William’s name hasn’t passed between them in years. There were terrible things under that stone, and neither of them dared turn it again.

Scully chews the inside of her cheek, unsure if this is cruelty or catharsis.

“But,” her mother continues, “You seem to have found a measure of happiness. You’re practicing medicine again. You and Fox have your animals, you’ve built a life together. A home. And that is good to see, Dana. You are a grown woman and I can’t tell you what to do or who to fall in love with. The reality is that I knew a long time ago, maybe before you did, that whatever you two have with each other wasn’t going away.”

Scully looks up, eyebrow raised.

Her mother mirrors her own skeptical expression. “Oh, Dana, let’s be serious. You two were looking at each other with such an utter lack of professionalism for so long I’m surprised Mr. Skinner didn’t reassign you.”

“Mom!” she exclaims, blushing.

“Goodness, I thought Bill was going to put him in the hospital with you back when you had cancer,” her mother adds with a kind of nostalgic relish.

Scully can’t help but laugh. “So did I.”

“In any case, my daughter, you are not living the fairy tale I wrote for you. But I’m at peace with that now, thanks be to Father McCue. I can’t dictate your story, I know that. You have found a man who loves you, however unconventional it may appear to me. And I think he makes you happy.”

“He does,” Scully murmurs, leaning against her shoulder. “It surprises me as much as you sometimes.”

“That’s all I can ask, then.”

Scully lies down to rest her head in the cradle of her mother’s lap. “Why are there three shoeboxes?”

A laugh, fingers twining through her tumbled hair. “Oh, Fox insisted we buy them in a half size on either side just in case. The credit card company froze his card mid-transaction and we had to call the fraud department to explain. I’ll say this for Fox, he has no qualms on splurging.”

“He has a love-hate relationship with that money.” She’d explained the Mulder family apocrypha years ago in an attempt to contextualize him. It had fallen rather flat at the time.

“Go get in the shower, Dana. You have a hair and makeup appointment at Violet. I’ll take credit for that idea, at least.”

Scully sits up, reaches around to unfasten the dress. “You’re coming with us to the courthouse, aren’t you?”

Her mother smiles. “Virginia doesn’t require any witnesses.”

She squeezes Maggie’s hand, the skin so thin and rose-petal soft. “Please come,” she says, suddenly tearful. “I can’t get married without you.”

***

His beard has been neatly trimmed, hair groomed by an opinionated woman of Eastern European extraction. He’d gotten his ensemble at Nordstrom when he and Maggie had finished shopping for Scully. He was exhausted at that point, drained by flirtatious salesgirls and his suspicious mother in law. Maggie had dropped her guard after the dress was purchased, handling endless pairs of earrings, scrutinizing the arch support in outrageously priced shoes. She was happy to dress him as well, her taste quite good, and Mulder submitted to her choices. He fidgets with his tie, straightens the carnation in his lapel

Skinner smacks him in the back of the head. “Cut it out, Mulder. Jesus, you’re like a little kid at church.”

Mulder scowls, checking his father’s watch for the time.

As if on cue, Maggie enters the courthouse. She’s wearing a navy dress, looking sweet and motherly. They catch each other’s eyes, genuine smiles passing between them. “Hello, Fox,” she says warmly.

“Maggie,” he replies and leans down to kiss her cheek.

She straightens up. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Skinner.”

“Walter,” Skinner says for the hundredth time, kissing her other cheek.

“Dana’s right behind me, she’s verifying with HR about the insurance change.”

Mulder rolls his eyes. His blushing bride, so sentimental.

The door opens then and they crane their necks to see her. Mulder stares, open mouthed.

Scully’s hair is pinned up in some complicated fashion, little tendrils around her stunning face. They’ve done her eyes all dark and her mouth is the color of peach blossoms. The dress he picked clings to her slender back, flaring out at her Barbie doll waist. Scully’s legs, always shapely, are a mile long in those shoes. The moonstones Maggie chose dangle from her ears like magic mirrors and he knows, unequivocally, that she is the fairest in the land.

“Wow,” he says, his education failing him.

“Damn, Gina,” says a man on the bench across from them. Skinner shoots him a stern look and the guy shrinks back.

Scully’s smiling, clearly flustered, and she toys with the silver bag in her hand. “I have all my paperwork in here, so we can go ahead and –”

“Dana,” Maggie murmurs gently. “Stop.”

Scully nods, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Sir,” she says to Skinner. “It’s good to see you.”

Skinner beams at her like a proud father.

“You look incredible,” Mulder says and it feels so empty, so shallow, to admire her looks in this surreal moment but how can he not?

“You do too, Mulder. It’s a beautiful suit.” She puts a hand to his face. “Scratchy beard.”

They smile like a couple of kids on prom night.

Behind them, a clerk coughs. “So I’m guessing you’re here to get married,” he observes. “You have the license yet?”

Scully, grateful for a purpose, strides over. “No,” she says with a brisk efficiency all out of sync with her Bond girl beauty. “We’ll fill it out now and then we would like to have the ceremony performed right afterwards.”

Mulder watches in wry amusement as she presents the clerk with a check and her necessary identification. Even their wedding can’t shake her need for order and control. He joins her at the counter, drawing his own ID from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Here goes,” he whispers into her ear. She’s wearing the perfume he bought her, smelling (the girl at the counter told him) of jasmine and neroli. He wants to bury his face in the curve of her neck, but he has the rest of his life for that.

“The form, please,” Scully snaps at the clerk.

He passes it to them with a couple of cheap pens. They fill it out quickly, Scully’s brow furrowed, Mulder feeling faintly disoriented.

“I’ll just get this typed up,” the clerk says when they’re done. “Then you can go to this room. I’ll let the magistrate know.” He hands them a Post-It with a room number then, moments later, their official license.

Scully takes it in her hands, running her tongue over her top lip. “This is so strange,” she whispers, giving him a shy look.

“It is. Which is really something, given our standard for strange.” He bumps her hip with his and they’re just Mulder and Scully again, in another bland government building, waiting for another bored official to see them.

They turn to Maggie and Skinner, Mulder brandishing the Post-It. “Let’s do this,” he says.

They walk down the hallway, the women’s heels clicking on the tiles ahead of Skinner and him.

“Congratulations on not fucking this up,” Skinner whispers.

“Thanks, Walter. You have the rings?”

Skinner pats his pocket, nodding.

They enter a nondescript room presided over by a gray-haired woman in judge’s robes. “Bride and groom step forward, please.”

Mulder swallows hard, approaches the table with his betrothed. “That’s us.”

She offers them a warm smile. “You look very nice, dear,” she says to Scully, scanning the marriage license. “Are there any special vows you have prepared?”

“No,” Mulder says. “Whatever you normally do is fine.” What is left for them to say to each other at this point?

“Let’s go ahead, then. You’ll just repeat after me when I prompt you, okay?”

Behind them Maggie is smiling with an aching tenderness. Skinner’s jaw is set and stern, but his eyes are soft.

He and Scully face each other, her lovely face so serious. “Hi,” she mouths.

Mulder gives her a thumbs up.

“Rings?” the magistrate asks.

“No,” Scully says as Skinner steps forward. He passes them each a box.

Mulder opens his, removes the slim platinum ring set with pave diamonds. He marvels at the tiny diameter. Across from him Scully has his platinum band in her palm. She looks breathless, unprepared for yet another surprise.

He hears his own voice as though it’s playing on speakers. “I, Fox Mulder, in the presence of these witnesses, do take you Dana to be my lawful wedded wife to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part. Again.”

The magistrate gives him a strange look.

Scully holds her hand out and he sees it trembling. He steadies it with his own, slides the ring over her finger. She bites her lip, blinking hard.

“Your turn, Dana,” says the magistrate.

“I, Dana Scully, in the presence of these witnesses, do take you  _Fox_  to be my lawful wedded husband to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part. Again.”

Maggie sniffles into a handkerchief.

Scully takes his hand, pushes the ring down over his knuckle. Its partner sparkles from her pale finger.

The magistrate clears her throat. “By the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Virginia, I now pronounce you man and wife. And now everyone’s favorite part. You may kiss the bride.”

The bride smiles at him with shining eyes and takes a step closer. “Happy belated birthday,” she whispers.

He takes her in his arms, his hand slipping under the dress to cover her bare skin. He kisses her, feeling younger than he has in a decade.

***

They’re curled up together under several thick blankets, the evening air cold enough to make her ears tingle. The light from the movie flickers over them, Buttercup vowing never to love again. Scully nudges her head under Mulder’s arm.

Her husband smiles down at her, stroking her hair. “You’re still all crispy,” he observes.

“You did your best when we got home from dinner,” she says. “You’ll get the rest of the hairspray out later. I think you missed a couple hairpins too.”

Scully had quickly discovered that his wedding ring was a profound aphrodisiac. She found herself fascinated by the way light bounced off it, a talisman in the glow of their bedroom candles. She’d left her wedding dress on when she straddled him, Mulder still in his shirt and tie, and the reverent look on his face left her gasping and trembling before she was ready.

“I think we need a shower,” he says. “Just to make sure it’s all out.” He loves showering with her, washing her hair and running his big soapy hands over her slick body.

She shivers with happy anticipation, nestling more tightly against him.

“Goodness,” Mulder says. “A doctor with two residencies under her belt and enough sense to marry me, but look at you. You’re wearing a hoodie, why isn’t the  _hood_  up?” He fusses with her sweatshirt for a moment, half obscuring her face as he tightens the drawstring.

Scully frowns at him. “Well now I can hardly see the movie.” She must have watched  _The Princess Bride_  two dozen times at this point, but it doesn’t matter.

He loosens the hood. “Peekaboo. Where’s Scully? There she is!”

She rolls her eyes. “Do you feel different?”

“Now that we’re married? You looked really hot in your wedding dress. I have a lot of feelings about that.”

She elbows him. “Be serious.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” she confesses, like it’s something to be embarrassed about. “I didn’t think I would, but it’s nice. I’ve enjoyed being your wife for the last six hours or so.” He carried her over the threshold after dinner but she wants him to do it again, then undress her by the fire.

“I like it too,” he says, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “This is my favorite paperwork we’ve ever filled out together.”

“Mine too.

Mulder slides his hand under her clothes, and they’re warm and work-roughened against her cool skin. "Mawwiage,” he says, “mawwiage is what bwings us togeva today.”

Scully laughs. “So romantic”

“I can quote the one about perfect breasts if you like.” His thumbs move up to her nipples.

Scully sighs in contentment. Owls hoot from the woods, but Mulder’s chickens are locked up tight and safe. The goats have been milked by a neighbor, and bread is rising next to the stove. Smoke curls from the fire pit and soars up, up, up to where stars twinkle like the diamonds on her hand.


End file.
